The Everything Man
by IrishCreamTruffle
Summary: SLASH. Derek Morgan and Aaron Hotchner - Hotch . Hotch: "No one should expect to get a lot of sleep for the next three days." Rated for adult content.


**Title: **The Everything Man

**Author: **IrishCreamTruffle

**Summary:** Set in Season 5, after "Uncanny Valley" but before "Our Darkest Hour,"… inspired by the look on Morgan's face in "The Fight" when Hotch says, "Morgan and I will go… no one should expect to get a lot of sleep for the next three days."

**Pairing: **SLASH! Derek Morgan/Aaron Hotchner

**Rating:** NC-17

**Disclaimer:** I don't own these actors, characters, or TV show. Trust me, if I owned Thomas Gibson and Shemar Moore, I would not be sitting around on my computer writing these things. Also, I'm not making any money off this. However, my life would be perfect if people paid me to write this. As far as I know, this never happened. It is simply a fragment of my imagination. The title is property of a Talib Kweli song called "Everything Man,"… again, not mine.

**Author's Notes:** Hey guys… this is my first venture into this fandom! I've been following the series for quite some time, though. Any feedback is greatly appreciated. It's quite self-indulgent but it felt incredibly right to write the story this way… I hope you find that reading it feels just as right.

* * *

Derek runs a hand over his face.

His eyes rise from their previous focus on his leftover case files. He's too used these tinny lights. His observation shifts from spot to spot the in the near-empty BAU office.

For example… the now empty drawing board for the exploration of their crime scenes.

Prentiss' desk. Hours after she's left, he misses her oddly unflinching demeanor and the pretty way her dark lashes frame her equally dark eyes.

Reid's desk. Even after the sweetest of Derek's promises and the most charming of his smiles, Reid refused to take on any extra paperwork load. Derek's partially relieved for this; he's glad Reid is learning to enjoy at least _some_ of his young life. However, it doesn't stop him from missing Reid's enthusiastic rambling or the brightness of his smile.

Rossi's desk. Rossi… maybe the only man in the world suitable to replace Gideon. They need Rossi. Even in the most gruesome and disparaging of situations, Rossi has that soothing, comforting way about him. It's not in what he says but simply in the way he _is_, in his slow smile and liquid body movement: all cool waters. Derek _really_ misses that right now.

His eyes continue focusing upwards, following the path of the staircase and landing on JJ's office. Ever since the case involving Samantha Malcom and her human dolls, he can't stop marveling over the doll-like qualities of JJ's face, the skin like golden porcelain, the rosiness of her cheeks, and the near twinkling blue of her eyes. Derek misses the quickly developing motherly nature she brings with her.

Derek stretches his arms upwards, his fingers lacing to crack his knuckles, back stretched as his arms fold behind his head. This one makes him smile… _really_ makes him smile. His baby girl. Her station is nowhere near his line of vision, but that doesn't stop his mind from painting its own picture. He misses… well, what's _not_ to miss? The sunny colors, the sparkly glasses highlighting her cherubic face, her joyous quipping and flirtation… he adores his Penelope.

He stands up, stretching again, desperately trying to stretch out the immobility he's subjected his body to for the last uncountable series of hours. The short stream of thoughts brought on by his teammates made him feel fond and warm, but the current loneliness of the BAU drains him back to reality. The stack of finished casework on his desk is exhausting him just with its mere presence. He wonders if the cases are actually getting worse in nature or if he's just doing a worse job compartmentalizing his emotions toward them.

Samantha Malcom and her freaky-ass doll complex. Wilson Summers manipulating all those kids to choke themselves on a rope. William Hodges and his cons… how close he was to killing his own wife and child. Connor O'Brien and the way he terrorized Providence to get back at his old man. Roger and Anita destroying all those children. Wade Hatchett killing his way to his "queen." Robert Burke abducting all those women, documenting them through his tattoos.

This time both of Derek's hands cover his face. That's it. He's done thinking about this.

Ever since the day he held the broken down Hotch in his arms, Derek hasn't looked at anything the same. He remembers prying Hotch off Foyet's corpse, the older man slumping against him, briefly trusting Derek to bear his full weight. Derek had cupped Hotch's elbow in a gesture of comfort, a touch that was gone almost as soon as it arrived. Then Derek murmured the only existing soothing words into Hotch's sweat-dampened hair: it's over.

Derek blinks. He's startled at the detail of the image. More so, he's startled by the realization of how important that moment is in his own psyche. He rolls his shoulders before walking up the stairs and down the corridor.

He stops at the vision in the furthest office. The office lights seem so dim in comparison to the corridor lights. Hotch is re-arranging things busily in his office. The space is incredibly neat except for Hotch's red tie hung haphazardly across the arms of one of the visitor chairs. Hotch has already run his hand through his hair a few times. His blazer has long-since been discarded, as carelessly strewn about as the tie. The first three buttons of Hotch's normally stiff white shirt are undone. The cuffs are unlinked and rolled up well onto his forearms.

Derek smiles fondly; the sight is comforting, even in Hotch's version of disarray. He realizes that he wasn't completely unaware of Hotch's presence in the lonely office.

He doesn't miss Hotch, because Hotch is here with him. Derek bows his head briefly and smiles once more.

* * *

Aaron recognizes Morgan's presence only a little before Morgan stands in the open doorway.

Aaron looks at him from behind his desk. He stands up from his formerly hunched position, his body language surprisingly relaxed. An uncharacteristic smile turns his mouth upwards. "Couldn't talk Reid into doing your paperwork?"

Morgan laughs, shaking his head in the negative. Morgan's smile is a sudden beam of light on the once-worried face. Aaron jerks his head slightly, signaling for Morgan to come in. Morgan shuts the door behind him.

Morgan stands in front of a file cabinet that reaches the tops of his thighs. He's not fully sitting on it, but it's supporting most of his weight as he leans against it. He folds his arms over his chest. Morgan doesn't have to openly gesture to Aaron's disheveled appearance (well, disheveled for Aaron Hotchner… normal for anybody else). His eyes are concerned but firm when he speaks, still full of warmth and not completely devoid of humor. It's a balance that only Morgan can seem to achieve: "These cases are settling hard for you too, huh?"

Aaron walks around his desk so that he's standing in front of it. He leans on the desk much the same way Morgan leans upon the file cabinet. The movement's automatic, and if Aaron weren't a profiler, he wouldn't have even noticed that he'd mimicked Morgan's stance. He didn't bother interpreting it further. He looks down for a long moment before meeting Morgan's eyes. "They're all harder now."

Aaron knows he doesn't have to elaborate any further.

His new found trust in Morgan is something that has been mildly unsettling. He has mostly discarded the thoughts before they've had time to flourish. The trust isn't something that's completely novel to Aaron… as a teammate, partner, and even successor, Aaron has always held a deep faith in Morgan's abilities. He trusts Morgan with his life. What Aaron wasn't prepared for was his physical and intellectual confidence morphing into a more intimate trust. As a confidant, he had always turned to Rossi first… Gideon when he was still with the BAU. He feels more comfortable approaching some older than he, more experienced.

Now, on the rare occasion that he chooses to confide, he still turns to Rossi. He never approaches Morgan... not directly. It is only a recent revelation in which Aaron realizes that he doesn't _have_ to approach Morgan. Morgan just _knows_. It's communication buried in a look. It's in Morgan's understanding of when to stand a little closer and when to take a step back. It's in Morgan's concern for him… never expressed explicitly to him, but through numerous arguments with Rossi. It's in Morgan's intuition. Morgan knows when Aaron can't handle leading the team; it's in Morgan's seamless ability to take over that leadership; it's also in Morgan's complete willingness to let Aaron take over upon readiness.

Morgan is the only one who felt him completely break… and upon rebuilding, Morgan's inside. It's unnerving.

He's even more unnerved by how much he appreciates it.

And in his understanding way, Morgan doesn't break the silence until now, until all of Aaron's thoughts have manifested themselves in the confines of the office. Morgan's chin drops against his chest briefly, eyes locked on what Aaron soon realizes are his own shoes. Morgan speaks softly, "Too much involving kids."

The names just pop up into Aaron's head. Different but sensitive ties to childhood.

Carl Buford. Jack.

"Where's Jack tonight?" Morgan asks gently.

Aaron quickly suppresses any thoughts about Morgan being a mind reader. "He's staying with Haley's sister. She's been begging for some quality time with him." The afterthought makes Aaron smile. A small smile from Morgan immediately echoes it.

They stay in silence for a brief while. It's not challenging. It's not awkward.

The dimmer lighting feels appropriate, casting shadows where they rightfully should be.

Aaron pushes off his arms, standing up straight again. He goes to move, ready to leave… he thinks.

Morgan's eyes flicker downward before he makes his request. "Please don't be alone tonight, Hotch."

Aaron stops moving. The statement is so vague, so ambiguous, so generic. Morgan's body language doesn't suggest anything. Morgan's face doesn't betray anything. Yet somehow he knows exactly what Morgan is asking for. He holds Morgan's eyes for a long moment. Partially shadowed, Morgan's eyes are even darker than normal. Aaron swallows and he's aware of his heart pumping faster, his face growing warmer.

"Should we?" Aaron asks.

A simple question. A docile, trusting inquisition for advice.

He's surprised that he's asking Morgan. That wasn't the response he expected from himself. He wasn't sure _what_ response he expected from himself. He didn't know _if_ he expected a response from himself.

But he is simply asking his subordinate… or his superior… or…

The technicalities of their hierarchy had become complicated lately… and something that neither of them wanted to talk about.

Morgan stands up straight. It's a surprisingly short walk that puts Morgan face to face with Aaron. Morgan's close enough so that Aaron can feel his body heat, can smell the warm low-tones of his cologne, can see his eyes without the mask of the shadows. Morgan still keeps a respectful distance, enough that Aaron knows he has space and choice to opt out.

Morgan puts either hand on Aaron's sides, on the highest ridge of Aaron's ribs, nestled in the warmth between Aaron's flanks and biceps. His thumbs border Aaron's chest. The movement is confident but not aggressive. If Aaron weren't as good at his job, he wouldn't have felt the nervousness masked by the steadiness of the hands. Aaron knows the hand placement is well-analyzed. Any lower on the waist would have been effeminizing.

Morgan's eyes haven't left Aaron's. Morgan squeezes gently. His voice is warm but unwavering. "You need this. I— "…this is the first time Morgan falters. He's confident approaching Aaron's needs, but he's hesitant to express his own. His eyes flicker down one more time before settling back on to Aaron's. "—I need this. We can have this." Morgan's voice is slow, and Aaron can see he's trying especially hard not to be intrusive. His gaze is steady and earnest. He squeezes tenderly once again for emphasis. "But_ only_ if you want."

Aaron's eyes hold Morgan's for a few seconds longer before his gaze sinks down between their bodies. Morgan's t-shirt isn't particularly tight, but the shirt dangles gracefully in a way that does nothing to hide the strong torso it covers. Aaron's eyes move up. The shallow V-neck gives way to some of Morgan's smooth collarbone and neck. As his eyes travel further upward, he comes into contact with the strong jaw-line. Morgan's face, clean shaven just yesterday, is now well-shadowed by stubble. Upon moving upward, he sees the high cheekbones. The soft honey-tinted chocolate of Morgan's skin is undeniable.

Aaron chuckles to himself.

_What's __**not**__ to want?_

A less confident man would have been offended by that quiet rumble of laughter, could have easily misinterpreted it. But when Aaron's eyes finally make their way back to deep, dark ones, Morgan is holding strong, staying steady… just like Aaron knew he would.

Aaron's hand finds the back of Morgan's neck. He's surprised at how warm the skin is against his fingers. He only has a few seconds to ponder before his unoccupied hand comes to rest on the side of Morgan's neck, thumb just below his pulse. His eyes break contact from Morgan's… to discover his lips.

Then he's guiding Morgan toward him.

Their first kiss is too gentle. Neither of them is mentally prepared for the sensation. Aaron's not ready for the gentle scrape of Morgan's stubble against his lips and chin. He's not prepared for the hot adrenaline it sends through his body. He's not prepared for the dynamic of kissing a man. He's not prepared for the contradiction of the strong lines of Morgan's face and the pliant softness of his lips. The kiss begins as a hesitant series of dry kisses, barely more continuous than an assembly line of pecks. Both men are walking on eggshells, too worried about respecting the other man's authority to surrender to the kiss completely; both are worried about assuming dominance over the other, worried about the implications that go along with it.

Things get less complicated when the heated air between their bodies disappears, replaced by the flushness of Morgan's body against his. Aaron can feel the warmth of Morgan's skin permeating through both of their shirts. Morgan's body is all hard strength, but it molds to Aaron's with such an ease that it's hard to believe the body's not softer. The closing of this last separating space seems to be all it takes to seduce them into relaxation.

The separation of their lips only lasts the briefest of seconds as Morgan moves his head, his nose brushing against Aaron's as he shifts, repositioning so he can kiss Aaron more deeply. These kisses move together fluidly, slowly. The first collision of their tongues is tentative, and from there on it's about tasting and exploring. As Morgan's arms wrap around Aaron's back, fitting their bodies more tightly together, it's about confidence and desire.

Morgan's an intoxicating kisser. He's wonderfully intense, yet he never crosses the line, never smothers.

Morgan was right. And somehow, Aaron trusted that all along.

* * *

The door to Derek's house closed and locked long ago.

Their newly bare feet are padding blindly across the carpet of Derek's bedroom. Still attached at the mouth, the men are stumbling in the direction of the bed. Derek's short nails find their way through the thick expanse of black hair, finding their destination at Hotch's scalp. Derek's ears don't pick up on a moan, but his lips register the low vibration leaving the other man's mouth. He swallows the sound waves in their entirety, his fingers picking at the buttons on Hotch's shirt.

There's only a slight halt as the back of Hotch's knees hit the edge of Derek's bed. Neither of them makes the move to lie down yet. The grey cotton being lifted over Derek's chest breaks his concentration and the kiss. His arms go up obediently as the soft fabric goes over his head and is removed completely. Hotch's hands on his body are surprisingly soft, despite their strength. Morgan is only able to detect roughness around the outer edge of Hotch's palms and at the very tips of the fingers. He can only appreciate those minute details for a second, because with Hotch's slight push forward, their lips are pressed back together, and Derek's no longer able to concentrate on anything else.

Except removing Hotch's shirt. Derek pushes the stiff fabric over Hotch's shoulders and down his arms until it falls to the floor, no longer an obstruction. He's suddenly aware of how overwhelmingly impatient he is to feel the softness of the pale skin under his fingers. His body is yelling at him, because part of him wants to break the kiss so he can admire that skin, see the beautiful way it contrasts to the dark hair, pink lips, and ever-darkening cheeks. The other part is fully committed to the wet mouth beneath his own... the warmth, the tactful tongue… the give, the take, the unpredictable turns between dominant and submissive it takes.

So Derek compromises. His fingers move to Hotch's chest and stomach as if compelled by magnetics, but he doesn't break the kiss, doesn't open his eyes. He lets his fingers see for him. Hotch's skin is smoother and hotter than he expected, so hot that he's certain it must have a stunning flush to it. He's already addicted to feeling the strong muscles underneath that soft skin.

Derek's so lost in his explorations that he almost doesn't notice Hotch's hands on him; this might be possible if Hotch's hands weren't so intuitive. One hand is firmly on the back of Derek's neck, the other exploring his torso. One set of fingers is feathering at nook where neck meets skull; the other set follows the deep, straight indent that goes from Derek's chest to his navel. Hotch's fingers are interrupted by the waist line of Derek's pants. The shivers that course through Derek's body force him to break the kiss, his head falling backwards, neck only supported by Hotch's firm hand.

All the hairs on his body rise seemingly at once, and Derek hazily realizes that he's never gotten _this_ hard, _this_ fast.

He's finally able to look at and admire his counterpart. He smiles with swollen lips when he realizes his fingers painted such an accurate picture for him. He's fascinated by the body in front of him… strong like his own. It is also completely foreign to him in so intimate of a setting. The cohesive, word-forming, logical part of his brain has no idea what to do with this body. But somehow, in the deeper, more primal depths of himself, he knows _exactly_ how to touch this body. He knows exactly how to _love_ this body.

Even as they fall naked in bed together, all trust and no fear, they know they're not ready to have sex. Both have their own reasons for not being able to take on the submission. And maybe for the same reasons, neither is willing to assume complete dominance over the other one. Even in their lust-induced flurry, respect trumps desire. So they use their hands for tonight, sharing the power equally and without greed.

The men trade back and forth being above and below the other, lips shared and slick hardnesses pressed together through the grips of the other man's hand. They both slowly ease into the pleasures of controlling and allowing the other man to control.

The two men shift again; the movement doesn't even break their grips upon one another. It happens with a grace that has Derek convinced Hotch predicted the movement several seconds before Derek actually executed it. Their lips part for much needed air, and Derek gets to take another good look at Hotch.

He starts at Hotch's eyes. They're so dark, eerily reflective of his own. They're trusting but still filled with stubborn strength. It's a combination that only makes sense on Hotch. Derek's eyes shift down to the broad shoulders, the grace of the collar bone connecting them. His eyes continue down the well-defined chest. It's yet another trail down the slightly heaving abdomen, smooth and toned in a way that's unique and especially well-suited to Hotch.

Then his eyes meet the hard cock in his hand… wonderfully creamy against his own dark skin. The hard flesh is thick and long, perfectly complementary to Hotch's tall, strong form. It stands strong against Derek's own manhood, nearly identical in everything but color. He gets to _see _and _feel _Hotch's fingers caressing the underside of the head on his own member, and his eyes flicker shut at the double stimuli. But they open again, focusing back on Hotch's hardness as it bumps against his own. The flesh seems to harden further and further in his hand, glistening from a combination of their shared sweat and pre-cum. The head is flushed lightly, deliciously swollen and soft against Derek's own fingers.

Derek had been satisfied with hands, but now he needs to taste.

Hotch's neck. That's the next place Derek's gaze lands. And he needs to have it. Hotch's neck is strained back in his own pleasure, Derek's for the taking. Derek begins with kisses along the sensitive tendons, and Hotch starts. He hears the low mew of pleasure from the man beneath him, feels the already rigid cock jump in his hand. He can't help but smile against the blushing pale skin. Hidden under Hotch's angular jaw, Derek discovers Hotch's pulse point. His tongue darts out to taste the strong thumping against smooth skin. He nuzzles the pulse lovingly, the speed and strength of the beating against his lips causing his own cock to jump in Hotch's hand.

He sinks down Hotch's body with surprisingly little attention to the rest of the expanse. He wants to taste it and savor it eventually, but in this moment it only serves as a pathway to what he's craving. As less than an inch separates Derek's face from the hard appendage, he's sure he feels Hotch try to sit up, hears him open his mouth to protest, to convince Derek that he doesn't _have_ to.

Derek won't let that happen. He presses his lips to the base of Hotch's cock; they trail their way up to the fleshy head wetly. The head rests loosely between Derek's bottom and top lip. The tip of his tongue runs gently along the sensitive ridge separating head from shaft. Hotch's whole body jumps at this and a raspy cry leaves his throat. Derek looks up at him, sees Hotch's gaze narrowed at him with a startling power. The gaze is heated but still unsure. Derek puts his hands on Hotch's hips reassuringly. He smiles against the engorged tip before giving it a tender kiss, his eyes still on Hotch's.

And then Derek takes the full head into his mouth, his eyes closing upon impact of the headiness and saltiness on his tongue. It tastes perfect. Hotch jerks in response, emitting another guttural groan, this one even louder than before. Derek growls when his own body responds to the noise. He's endlessly pleased that _he's_ the one responsible for the noise Hotch made. He wants to hear it again. He wants to hear it longer… better… louder… more desperate… more primal.

He sinks down further on the shaft, and Hotch's fingers clutch desperately at his shoulders, at the back of his neck, at the base of his skull. The fingers clutch more stiffly as Derek begins bobbing steadily. The choked gasps leaving Hotch's lips are candy to Derek's ears, and he has to open his eyes, if only for a second, to admire this rare moment. Hotch's head is thrown back, so far that Derek almost can't see his face. Hotch's eyes are tightly shut, mouth open as harsh gasps break through the soft, swollen lips. His muscles are tensed and clenched, his fingers stiff around Derek's nape as he tries to adjust to the sensations overriding him.

Derek's eyes close again, centering him back to the weight on his tongue. Giving Hotch pleasure warms Derek right in the center of his chest, but he can still feel slight panic from the man he considers his superior, panic at being so overwhelmed and out of control. Derek blindly reaches behind himself. He removes one of the hands on his nape and guides it to rest on the bed. From there, he laces his own fingers through Hotch's, his grip firm and assuring as he holds it there. His other hand is still on Hotch's hip, his thumb working gentle circles on the prominent hipbone.

Derek's ministrations stumble momentarily. He underestimated the difficulties of multitasking all these different movements. Derek flusters momentarily, but then Hotch's shaking hand moves behind Derek's ear, pads of his fingers stroking the tender flesh gently. He knows it's Hotch's way of telling him to take his time… that what he's doing is just fine. So he does. He keeps one hand intertwined with Hotch's on the mattress, but moves the hand on Hotch's hip to the base of the older man's cock. Hotch's gasp is uncharacteristically soft as Derek begins moving his hand up and down the lower half of Hotch's cock. Derek has synced the hand movement in time with his mouth lavishing the upper half.

Derek doesn't know how long passes before he decides he needs to feel the full length in his mouth. His now wet hand moves down to cup Hotch's balls, rolling the soft flesh back and forth over his palm. A long, deep moan resonates, and it sounds like it comes from somewhere deep in Hotch's chest. Derek groans in return, and he feels Hotch's body shiver in tandem with the vibration.

He slowly works his way lower and lower on the warm heaviness in his mouth, his own body responding as he feels more and more of it fill him. His throat tenses as the head begins to hit the back of his throat. Hotch gasps; his hand goes to Derek's cheek and his fingers grip under Derek's jaw, trying to pull him up.

This is Hotch's way of rebuking Derek for trying to push his body's limitations too far, trying to take Hotch deeper even as his throat struggles with the extra content. Derek knew Hotch didn't want him doing that to himself, even if Hotch physically enjoyed sensation.

Derek lets Hotch's fingers guide him up, mostly out of respect. But he establishes eye contact with Hotch, and his eyes are authoritative and determined against the concern in his superior's. He smiles reassuringly and shakes his head, kissing the pale fingers that were once on his cheek. There's a look of surrender in Hotch's eyes, something that tells Derek that Hotch is willing to trust him on this one. With one more peck to Hotch's palm, Morgan lowers again and sucks Hotch back into his mouth.

He needs to feel the whole thing; he needs to be completely filled with Hotch, if even for just a moment. He wants it for Hotch. He wants it for himself. He works slowly, gradually taking more each time he sinks down on the length, breathing deeply and carefully through his nose. With pure abandon, he takes one more deep breath and goes down all the way. He struggles with it a little bit, but he relaxes enough to enjoy the sensation of the full rigidness in his mouth.

And this time Hotch screams.

And it's all worthwhile.

Derek rises back up with a gasp for air. He slowly spits the excess saliva back on to Hotch's cock, his hand working over Hotch's full length as he works to regain control over his breathing.

Hotch's lower lip trembles before the sound emerges from him. His voice cracks from the strain.

"O-oh, god."

Derek watches closely, and he's ready to taste again. This time he's working his mouth and hand furiously, wanting this both for himself and Hotch.

Hotch begins trembling. "M-M-Morgan," he stutters out.

Derek just continues, groaning in response. Hotch jerks.

"Morgan!" Derek knows the sound came out raspier than Hotch wanted. He can hear the authoritative note in Hotch's voice trying to come out.

He knows Hotch is trying to warn him.

But Derek wants this.

He gives Hotch a long, knowing look and then continues back on his work, speeding up his movements, working his tongue more quickly, sucking harder.

And Hotch lets go. He's not thrusting into Derek's mouth; he's not forcing himself deeper than Derek's taking him, but he is rocking along with the movement. Derek feels him start squeezing his hand, starts feeling his hips stiffen.

Derek moans again and picks up his pace.

"Morgan!"

Hotch's voice comes out far higher pitched than normal, and Derek knows that this is it. He sucks the head hard. The powerful shaft in his mouth quivers violently, and then he feels a long stream of hot saltiness filling his mouth.

He works hard to swallow it all, but his inexperience catches up with him, and the spurts are coming too fast and too hard for him to catch it all. A small portion begins to leak out, but Derek catches it with his fingers, rubbing the substance between them, studying the texture before wiping it away.

He finally lets the cock fall from his lips. Slowed by exhaustion but still propelled by his own hardness, he paves a path of gentle kisses back up Hotch's heaving, glistening body. He makes a quick detour at the heart, relishing the heavy thudding before continuing upward.

He finally lands at the crook of Hotch's neck, burying his face in its warmth. He looks up at Hotch through his eyelashes and sees his eyes closed, mouth open, trying to take in deep, controlled breaths. Derek kisses the juncture between neck and ear before moving directly to face Hotch, brushing his nose against Hotch's.

Hotch's eyes flutter open and the dark pools, less guarded than he's ever seen them, make Derek smile. Those dark eyes widen a little bit and Derek feels concern bubble deep in his belly.

"You can take me," Hotch blurts out. The sound is slightly panicked.

To Derek's fuzzy mind, the statement is ambiguous at first, and then he knows _exactly_ what Hotch means, and he knows exactly what it's about.

He sees the exhaustion in Hotch's face, can feel it in the heavy way Hotch moves his hands over the expanse of his back. He knows Hotch feels like he has to offer more than his hands… meet Derek halfway. Sacrifice more for Derek… just like Derek did from him. He feels guilty about not being ready to return the same pleasure.

Derek's dark brows furrow together in concern and he shakes his head. "No," he decides firmly, eyes gentle but demanding. "No, no, no, no," the rest of this series is murmured against Hotch's lips. "We're not ready for that. It's not about that." _It's not about an eye-for-an-eye_. That's the part that doesn't need to be said. He looks in Hotch's eyes, pleading, his recent authority gone, "We don't have to do that. Just please… touch me. Your hands are fine. Your hands are _more_ than fine. That's all I want. Just…" Derek's voice breaks, and he looks away before looking back to Hotch. His voice is soft. "Please."

Hotch nods slowly, and Derek knows he's looking for any trace of a lie. He leans down, kissing Hotch before he can continue his scavenger hunt. He feels Hotch sigh beneath him and one of Hotch's powerful arms wraps around his back, pulling him tighter. The other hand goes to Derek's aching cock and begins stroking skillfully. He can feel the need in Hotch's grip, can feel it in the way he's re-establishing his assertion in the kiss. Derek lets him. It's Derek's turn to trust in Hotch's control.

Hotch's hand movements are picking up, twisting gracefully at the base and squeezing upon reaching the head. Derek can't stop the sounds leaving his lips… the groans, the growls, and as Hotch continues, the whimpers. The sounds are never fully realized because Hotch is swallowing them into himself, pressing Derek closer with each squeeze.

This time it's Derek's voice that trembles. Between Hotch's hands and his excitement from tasting Hotch earlier, he can't hold back longer. "H-Hotch…."

The arm around Morgan's back moves so that Hotch is palming his face. He grabs Derek's chin so that they're eye to eye. He brings Derek's face to his so that they're resting forehead to forehead. He pecks Derek's lips one more time. "Please," he murmurs.

Then Derek's eyes flutter shut and it's all white heat.

It takes him a moment to come to, and when he does, the strength of Hotch's body is supporting him. He kisses the ball of the shoulder tenderly before the stickiness between their bodies distracts him. Using all the strength that's left in his body, he pushes up off his arms, off the warmth of Hotch's body as he fetches a cloth.

He wipes at the fluid, first on Hotch's body, tenderly cleaning the stomach, then at his own, this with much less care.

Now that it's all done, he finds himself oddly afraid to make eye contact… afraid that he'll see regret in Hotch's eyes upon the cloud of lust lifting.

But Hotch weakly pulls at his hand, yanking him, without any real force, to the bed.

Derek smiles tiredly at this, rolling into bed as Hotch lifts the heavy covers for both of them. He curls up against Hotch's side, forehead buried into the side of his neck. Derek finds that he's taken a liking to that nook. Hotch's arms wrap around him.

"Stay with me tonight?" Morgan's voice sounds childish even to himself, and if he had more energy, he would have worked tirelessly to take the words back.

He feels the sleepy vibration of Hotch's chuckle. Then, he feels Hotch's chin rub against his forehead as the older man nods.

Derek wonders what kind of hell this night will wreak for them in the future, but his mind and body are too tired to even entertain the stream of thought.

He hears a click and then the lights go out. He's surprised Hotch found the switch so easily.

Hotch's arms tighten around him, and Morgan officially decides that he's not worrying about tomorrow right now. He finds the crook in Hotch's neck.

Right now, that spot is all he cares about.


End file.
